


A Winter Homecoming

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Winter, Baker Street [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 03, Caring Lestrade, M/M, No Mary, Post-Reichenbach, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate (Mary free) post-Reichenbach reunion.  Sherlock returned on the third anniversary of his death: gaunt, injured, and very, very cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snow

Sherlock died in the wintertime. Three years ago there had been just a few flakes of snow mixed in the light rain over St. Barts. This anniversary it had started snowing when he’d met John at the cemetery. The flakes had started sticking to the ground when they retired to a nearby pub, and by the time they were working their way through a bottle of scotch in Baker Street the city was carpeted in white. 

Greg kicked out his legs in front of the fire; the threadbare armchair that had replaced Sherlock’s leather chair wasn’t quite the right height for his frame. He regarded the man across from him. John was very drunk, and showing no signs of slowing down. They had come full circle: a painful silence at the cemetery; talking at the pub, sharing their best and most outrageous Sherlock stories; more subdued conversation back at Baker Street once they’d opened the scotch, and then back to silence. John poured himself another generous measure and Greg allowed a splash to be added to his own glass as well.

It was well after midnight; the anniversary was over. John cleared his throat and without looking up from his glass said, “I asked him for one more miracle: I asked him to stop being dead.” Oh. Greg wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation to go that way again. Before he could come up with a reply, John groaned and burped, ominously, slurring as he said, “Fuck, I’m plastered.” 

John lurched forward, splashing liquor onto the rug, almost out of his chair. He reached across and put a hand on Greg’s knee for balance, then snatched it back. Greg shrugged to show he didn’t mind.

“I need to go…” John waved vaguely towards the stairs, “I need to go to ged.” He blinked. “Go the bed.” John peered at Greg, then towards the window, as if taking in the late hour and fuzzily connecting the dots with the weather they had seen earlier. “You can stay if you need to. Sofa, or…” He waved a hand indistinctly towards what had been Sherlock’s bedroom. Any chivalry he’d normally possess was gone along with the scotch, and he wobbled his way to his feet and towards the upstairs bedroom.

Greg listened to the faltering footsteps on the stairs. John’s limp had come back since Sherlock had died. There was an opening and shutting of the bedroom door, two steps, then silence. John must have done a faceplant on his bed.

There was at least another hour left in the fire, and more smokeless coal next to the hearth if he needed it. Greg set down his glass and made his way to the window. There wasn’t a car in sight, not even a cab on the whole of Baker Street. The buses had probably stopped too, by the look of things. He pressed his forehead to the glass and a chill settled behind his eyes. London didn’t do well with snow.

The sofa would be uncomfortable: too short and far from the fire. Perhaps he’d just sleep in the chair. The other option was unpalatable: Sherlock’s room. He hadn’t been in there since the other man had died. Had barely been there when Sherlock was alive, for that matter.

He blinked his eyes shut, forehead still against the glass, and when he opened them again his breath had left a white stain. As the fog slowly vanished something appeared in the street below that he hadn’t seen before. Something dark, moving slowly. As Greg watched the figure stumbled and fell, staggered to his feet (because, his brain helpfully supplied, with that height it had to be a he) only to fall again. _Get up_ Greg willed, _get up._

The man didn’t get up. Instead, he stayed on his hands and knees and turned his face towards the window. In the swirling flakes it was too hard to make out any of his features. _The light,_ Greg realised. He must be in the only window on the whole street with any light.

At least he still had his shoes on. His coat was sloppily hung by the door and it was a matter of a second to shrug it back on, setting the Yale lock so it wouldn’t catch behind him he made his way downstairs and out the front door.

The snow was swirling, deeper than it had in years. The whole city was silent, muted by the covering. The man was still on his hands and knees where Greg had last seen him, head hanging down. Greg gingerly walked over, stopping just short of the figure. The other man looked homeless. Long, dirty hair, and in the streetlight his clothes looked far too thin for the weather. “All right, mate?” Greg was proud of his ability to pull on his professional voice, even at two in the morning with a few drinks in him. “Do you need some help?”

“Yes, Graeme.” Matted curls tipped backwards as the man on the pavement looked up. “I think I do.” 

It was Sherlock Holmes.

Greg’s heart stuttered to a halt, then started beating again. Faced with the impossible, there was only one thing he could think to say, “It’s _Greg_!”


	2. Warmth

Sherlock, the complete and utter bastard, had smiled, then pitched face forward into the snow. Greg reached down and fished him out by the scruff of his neck, horrified at the lightness of the jacket he was wearing.

Reaching around Sherlock’s back provoked a hiss of pain, so he rearranged their limbs and supported the other man’s weight as they staggered towards 221b. Too thin, even for Sherlock, thought Greg as they started up the stairs. The detective was all angles; a bony hip and clavicle jutted into Greg’s side with every step.

God, it was cold, even in the entry hall to the flat. Too cold to be out. Sherlock could have died, Greg realised. He could have died right there in the snow if Greg hasn't happened to look out.

The fire was still going strong when they entered the flat so he propped Sherlock against the wall and spared a second to yank the seat cushions off the sofa and deposit them in front of the fire. Greg lowered Sherlock down on top of the cushions and tried to get a sense of what he was dealing with.

Gaunt, his brain helpfully supplied: gaunt was the word for how Sherlock’s skin stretched over his cheekbones and his eyes looked sunken. He was clearly freezing, but without even the energy to shiver. Ignoring the cracking in his knees, Greg crouched in front of the other man.

Sherlock blinked owlishly, not moving when Greg reached out and pressed a hand to his forehead, then ran it down under his collar to test the temperature of his skin. Hypothermia, clearly. How severe was hard to tell. “How long were you outside?” 

Sherlock blinked again and gave something that could have been a shrug. His lips were quite literally blue and his face was as white as the snow outside.

This was not good. Greg had heard stories about people dying from the side effects of hypothermia, even as they were being warmed back up. He was painfully aware it was still snowing-- a hospital couldn’t be further away in London. He reached out and took Sherlock gently by the chin, looking into his eyes as he said, “Come on, Sherlock, how long were you out in that?”

Slurring slightly, Sherlock offered, “Clearly, too long.”

“Can you tell me what day it is? Where you are?”

“I'm home,” Slowly, but more distinctly, he managed to say, “and it's rather hard to keep track of the days when you're smuggling yourself across Europe.” Sherlock's body seemed to restart and he gave a violent shiver. Looking up at Greg almost suspiciously, he asked, “Am I home?”

Greg let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Yes, Sherlock. Yes, you’re home. Here...” He pushed Sherlock to sit more closely by the fire and pulled one wet shoe towards him. Canvas trainers, completely sodden. Jesus. He quickly unlaced and eased one off, then the other. The socks underneath were tattered and soiled so he quickly peeled them off as well. Sherlock’s feet looked terrible: wrinkled from the damp with cuts and scrapes over the soles, as if he had gone barefoot recently.

Sherlock had started shivering, miserably and violently. Weakly, he started fighting his way out of an equally sodden cloth jacket. Greg moved up and gently pulled the jacket off, discarding it with a fling across the room. The shirt underneath was filthy, the back torn. And it smelled. No, Sherlock smelled. Greg rocked back on his haunches. The other man smelled unwashed, and worse. There was a tang of stale urine. Something else, decay? 

Sherlock had twisted towards the fire and closed his eyes as he shivered, enjoying the warmth on his face. Greg reached out and gently lifted up a torn flap of shirt. Sherlock flinched, violently, and Greg snatched his hand back. He took a breath, then said, “Please, Sherlock. I’ll be gentle.”

Sherlock seemed to will himself to be still, and gave a jerky nod without looking away from the fire. Okay, Greg told himself, easy does it. Gently peeling back Sherlock’s wet shirt revealed a criss-crossing of cuts, many infected and weeping. It was deliberate, and judging by the different amounts of healing had been done repeatedly over a long time. He’d seen a lot of things with the Yard, but this… For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Then his brain caught up with his emotions and it was clear: get Sherlock warm again. 

Get Sherlock warm again, he repeated to himself. The fire looked fine for a while. He reached out and gently pulled the remains of the sodden shirt off the other man. Indicating the ill-fitting and wet jeans he asked, “Can you take those off?” 

Sherlock nodded, and began to shuffle on the cushions as he reached towards his waistband.

Greg stood up and looked around. There was a knit blanket on the back of John’s chair, but it was far too small. He made his way down the hall to Sherlock’s room, sparing a thought for John, passed out upstairs, as he pushed the door open.

The bed had been stripped, but there were two bare pillows and a duvet stacked on the foot. No duvet cover, but it didn’t matter. The dressing gown was missing from its place on the back of the door, and the dresser drawers were empty. No sign of the sock index. He flung open the closet and was confronted by stacked boxes. Damn. 

Gathering up the duvet and pillows he opened the bathroom and spotted a pair of pyjama bottoms haphazardly hanging off the towel rack. They’d be too short, but that was the least of his worries. Sherlock was nude in front of the fire, hugging himself with his head on his knees. His back looked terrible, even in the dim light. Greg passed him the trousers, making a point of not looking as he did so.

Get Sherlock warm again, Greg repeated to himself. He found a tin of soup in the cupboard, emptied it into a Northumberland Fusiliers mug and set it in the microwave to heat. Snapping on the kettle, he found a bag of peppermint tea and dumped several spoonfuls of sugar in a second mug. When both were ready he returned to the kitchen to find Sherlock had pulled on the cotton trousers and wrapped himself in the duvet, toes emerging to perch on the edge of the hearth.

He sat down next to his friend and offered the mug of soup, only to find Sherlock shivering too badly to hold it. Ignoring the eyeroll that greeted his action, he dug the spoon into the soup and held it up invitingly. Sherlock regarded the spoon like a snake that could bite him. Eventually, he relented and leaned forwards, lips closing over the spoon. 

As Greg dug the spoon into the soup again and again he reflected that it was as if Sherlock hadn’t eaten in a long time. And perhaps he hadn’t. When the soup was done Sherlock was still shivering, but a little less violently than before. Greg put more coal on the fire and set the tea within easy reach, then returned to the bathroom. John. He needed John now, but was under no illusions as to the state of the doctor. There was a first-aid kit under the sink with antibiotic cream. Sterile gauze and tape. He found a clean washcloth as well, and stopped in the kitchen to fill a pot with warm water.

Sherlock had managed a few sips of tea, and had a resigned look already, as if he had known what was coming. Greg set down the supplies and crouched behind Sherlock, a gentle hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We’ll fix it properly tomorrow, but I want to at least clean off your back.” Without a word, Sherlock shrugged out of the duvet and let it pool on the carpet.

Greg rolled up his sleeves and dipped the washcloth in water, then held it up, considering. There wasn’t a spot of Sherlock’s back that didn’t look sore. As gently as he could, Greg touched the washcloth to a livid mark. 

Sherlock’s breath hissed through his teeth in response, but he didn’t move. Greg paused, uncertain, and Sherlock said, “Do it.”

“Sorry?”

“Do it, Lestrade. Please. I… I feel terrible. I think they’re infected. It’s been so long since I felt well. I can’t remember…” 

“Okay.” Greg placed a calming hand on the least sore looking spot on the other man’s shoulder. “Okay, here goes.” Slowly, methodically, he traced the cuts and welts with the washcloth, following with the antibiotic and gauze. Sherlock didn’t move or make a sound throughout the entire process. 

As Greg taped the last corner down he admitted it wasn’t as good a job as John would have done, but would suffice. “All right.” He pulled the duvet back up to cover Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock scooped up the mug of tea again, small tremors still going through his frame. After a few sips, and so softly Greg almost didn’t hear it, he said, “Thank you.” 

Greg just patted his shoulder again, marvelling at the words he couldn’t recall hearing from Sherlock before. There were so many questions to ask, but none for tonight. Greg made another cup of sweetened mint tea, and when Sherlock’s eyes started to flutter closed of their own accord he retrieved the mug before the dregs could spill. He helped Sherlock lie down on the cushions and banked up the fire again. The detective was out cold within minutes.

Wrapping himself in the knit blanket, Greg settled into John’s chair where he could watch his friend sleep. So many questions. Did John know? John, who was the witness to Sherlock’s supposed death? His gut told him no, but how could Sherlock fake his death so well that John was fooled? That John didn’t see it coming. And why? And more importantly, where had he been? Smuggling himself across Europe, evidently, but where had he been tortured? There was no other interpretation of the marks on his back. 

A small noise from the floor caught his attention. A whine of pain and an incessant shifting. Nightmare, thought Greg. The whine increased, then turned into a groan. A mumbled word, fearful, then more shifting that threatened to unseat all his carefully applied gauze.

Cursing softly, Greg clambered out of the chair and onto the cushions next to his friend, running a hand into the matted long hair and cradling Sherlock’s head. “Hey, it’s okay.” He ran a gentle hand over Sherlock’s forehead. “It’s okay. You’re home.”

At the word ‘home’ Sherlock’s fretful motions stilled, so Greg repeated it, “You’re home. You’re back in Baker Street, and tomorrow morning John is going to tear you a new one for what you put him through, you bastard. But for now, you’re home.” Tension seemed to flow out of Sherlock’s frame, although he still felt a bit cool.

Resignedly, Greg pulled the knit blanket off the chair and settled himself on the floor next to Sherlock, close enough to be another source of warmth and a buffer against the cooler rest of the flat. “Don’t you dare tell the Yard I did this, you hear.” He snorted and rubbed a hand gently over Sherlock’s duvet covered arm, “You’d spoil both our reputations.”


	3. One More Miracle

The first word on John’s tongue when he returned to consciousness the next morning was, “Bloody.” Attempting to roll over and feeling the resultant rise of rather peaty bile made it swiftly followed by an emphatic, “Buggering _fuck_!” Not his most creative, perhaps, given he had been in the army.

Oh, he felt awful. Sweaty, iffy stomach; he couldn't remember when he’d last had that much to drink. It was just eight in the morning and there was only dim light from his window. Limping downstairs, his stomach did finally rebel into the toilet, which actually left him feeling surprisingly better. He cleaned his teeth and regarded the greyer, saggier John Watson that looked back from the mirror. For the third time he told himself that this would be the year he would get over Sherlock Holmes. 

It hasn't worked the previous years either.

There were two empty mugs of mint tea in the kitchen. John frowned: he couldn't remember having one, and surely he’d feel fractionally better this morning if he had. The end of the night came muzzily back to him. Oh. The snow. Greg had likely stayed over. Didn't explain why he'd have used two different mugs for his tea, but drunk or hungover Greg was probably as illogical as drunk or hungover John Watson. 

John made two cups of PG Tips and carried them into the front room. Sure enough, there was the detective inspector wrapped up in a blanket by the fire. Only… John paused and tried to make sense of what he was seeing… there was someone else next to him. A very likely masculine figure wrapped up in an old duvet like a mummy.

Strangely, Greg had one arm wrapped almost protectively around the bulky figure. John set the tea down on a side table before he spilled them, and cleared his throat.

Greg stirred at the noise, propping himself on an elbow to check the person next to him before sitting up to face John.

“Morning,” said John, cautiously. From his puffy eyes Greg looked like he hadn't slept at all.

Greg cleared his throat and managed a distinctly cagey. “Morning.” He didn't seem keen to elaborate, even though caught outright in a strange position.

A smile started to tug the corner of John's mouth at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Did you feel the need to _entertain_ last night?” 

Greg looked down at the wrapped up figure next to him and seemed to blanch. “John…” His eyes flitted between John and the duvet, as if unsure where to look. Clearing his throat again as if there was something stuck in it, he said softly, “It's Sherlock.”

John felt the air fly out of his lungs. He’d heard wrong. Yes, that was the only possible explanation. He took a gulping breath and with scarcely enough air managed to say, “What?”

“It's Sherlock, John.” Greg set a hand on the figure next to him. “He came back last night.”

There was a rushing in John’s ears and his voice came out a murmur, “I'm dreaming.”

“No, you're not.”

The rushing was getting louder, threatening to drown out Greg’s voice. “Seriously?”

“Yes.” There was almost an apology in Greg’s tone, although at the moment John couldn’t fathom why.

“But how…” John’s voice didn’t sound at all like his own.

“I have no idea.” John took two unsteady steps over and sank down on his knees. As he reached out, Greg caught his wrist and said, “Careful. His back isn't good”

“Not good?”

“Someone worked him over.” Greg squirmed internally and forced himself to use the word: “Torture. For a while, by the looks of it.”

John looked ashen, more than just the hangover would account for. “And he just… Came back?”

Greg felt like he was confirming the patently impossible. “I looked out the window around two in the morning, and there he was.”

John surveyed the room, taking in the few pieces of discarded clothing and proximity to the fireplace. “That’s what he was wearing?” When Greg nodded, John couldn't stop an outburst, “He could have died!” Again. Trying to wrap his way around that made his head hurt.

And then there was the smallest shifting of duvet and a muffled voice he never thought he’d hear again said, “ _He_ didn't.”

Oh, God.

John reached down, gingerly, and peeled back the corner of the duvet. Oh, God. Something had clenched his chest, and clenched it tightly. Sherlock. It _was_ Sherlock, complete with tangled, unwashed hair. _Long_ hair, his brain helpfully supplied. And then Sherlock opened his eyes and John just about stopped thinking altogether.

“Hello, John.” It was the same voice. Rougher, perhaps, but the same sonorous voice that had haunted his dreams for three years, crowing _the game is on_!

“You’re not dead.”

“No.”

John’s vision blurred, abruptly, so that Sherlock vanished into a smudge of pale skin and dark hair. He spoke to the smudge anyway, asked, “How are you not dead? I saw…” His throat was closing now too, choking him. He forced the words around the lump. “I saw you die.”

He felt Greg’s hand close over his arm and a murmured, “Easy,” from the detective inspector.

Sherlock spoke again, and the words sounded both sincere and rehearsed, “I’m sorry, John, for what I put you through, but I am not sorry for having done it.”

John swiped his eyes clear, and cocked his head to one side, “Excuse me?”

“I said…”

“I heard what you said, I just can’t fucking believe it.”

Sherlock, the idiot, just blinked at him. Had the nerve to look vaguely surprised.

“Did you seriously just force me to spend the last three years _mourning your death_ and then waltz back in here and say you’re not at all sorry.”

“I’m sorry for what I put you through…” Sherlock began again, but John lurched to his feet instead of listening. He had to get out of there, immediately. Stomping towards the entryway, he remembered just in time that it was snowing outside and he was in pyjamas. Limping up the stairs to his room would most definitely make him feel worse, so he veered down the hall and slammed the door to Sherlock’s room behind himself.

Fuck. Sherlock’s room, still uninhabited and packed away. Except, of course, it _was_ packed away. All of it. Carefully in the closet for Sherlock to come back to. John ripped the photograph of Mendeleev off the wall and threw it across the room. The glass broke with such a satisfying noise he did the same to the photograph of Poe over the dresser. Then he ripped open the closet and when the top box was found to contain the infamous sock index he sent it flying across the room into disarray. 

Greg opened the door just as John’s hand closed on the arm of Sherlock’s microscope, which was good as that was heavy enough to put a hole in the floor. The opening of the door stopped John in his tracks, and Greg didn’t have to say a word. Just looked directly at the microscope and raised an eyebrow.

John set the microscope back down on the floor with a thud and managed to take two steps over to the bed before sitting down, heavily. He covered his face with his hands, voice muffled when he said, “He’s back?”

The bed dipped as Greg sat down next to him and confirmed, “He’s back.”

“And someone was torturing him? Recently?”

“He was hypothermic when I pulled him in from the snow. Said he’d been smuggling himself across Europe. His back is covered in cuts and the like, looks like a few weeks worth of work, at least. Not sure about the rest of him. He didn’t say much, but had… nightmares. I just tried to get him warmed up and his back taken care of well enough to last the night.”

John’s breath shook. “I don’t know that I can do this, Greg.”

“Yes, you can.” Greg waited a moment, and then reminded, “What did you ask him for? One more miracle?”

John nodded, and continued, “I asked him not to be dead.”

“I guess he heard you.” And then, there, was what Greg had hoped for, the smallest of smiles started to alight on John’s lips.

“I’m furious.”

“You have the right to be.” Greg shrugged, “I am too.”

“But…”

Prompting, in return, “But?”

“But, I think, I just might be glad.” John cast a furtive glance sideways and amended, “After being furious, of course.”

“Naturally.”

There were dust motes visible in the light from the lamp. John exhaled harshly and watched them swirl. “Sherlock-bloody-Holmes: back from the dead.”

“You did used to call him a drama queen.”

“I did, didn't I? God help me.” John visibly composed himself. “Okay, you go get the fire going again, given its bloody freezing out. I'll get my medical bag and some supplies together to give him a proper look over.”

“Anything else I can do?”

“How about three fresh cups of tea?” John considered and added, “Maybe some toast? I think that's about all I could keep down this morning, to be honest.”

Greg nodded and left John sitting on the bed. He reached down with a finger and traced over the quilted lines in the mattress. Whirls and loops. Jesus, he’d left a mess of broken glass on the far side on the room. One long sock hung limply from the lamp. And yet he still didn’t quite trust himself not to punch Sherlock right across his stupid face. _Somebody loves you_ , the purring of The Woman-woman came to mind, unbidden. One more miracle.

It would be a miracle if Mrs. Hudson didn’t faint clear away. 

There was a clattering coming from the kitchen; he’d sat there long enough. Right. Medical bag used for home visits, his own bathrobe, a pair of socks, a clean towel… John collected supplies and returned to the front room to find Sherlock sitting on the cushions in front of a new fire and sipping a mug of tea.

Long, tattered hair. Far too thin, with a pallor that went beyond illness and indicated an extended period of confinement as well. Torture-- Greg had said Sherlock had been tortured. Wherever he’d been while he was dead, it hadn’t been fun. The observations didn’t make John feel any better, but they didn’t make him feel worse either. Worse would have been Sherlock swanning in without a hair askew, having no need for John or care for what he’d put him through. What had Sherlock said? He was sorry for what he’d put John through, but not for having done it? The statement was more cryptic the longer he dwelled on it.

Sherlock looked up from his mug. There was a wariness that John hadn’t seen before. It didn’t suit him.

John decided to just start again. Over an armful of medical supplies and clothing, he said, “Hi.”

“Hello, John.” The same words as half an hour earlier.

John took a cautious step into the front room, then another. “You came back.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I always meant to. I just didn’t think it would be this long.” _Or this hard_ went unsaid.

“I saw you die.”

“You saw what you were meant to see.”

“How?” He was aware that the kitchen noises quieted, Greg obviously interested in the answer as well.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock paused and added more tentatively, “Molly.” There was a noise like a dish slipping out of someone’s grasp in the kitchen.

Mycroft was unsurprising, but Molly… It explained her more than usual skittishness at the funeral. “And your parents?” Sherlock looked surprised, then nodded. “I thought I’d meet them at the funeral, but they didn’t come.”

“My brother insisted on that point.”

John stepped all the way into the room, moving to join Sherlock by the fire and depositing the armful of things into his chair. He ignored the ache in his leg as he lowered himself to sit on the floor beside the other man. “I don’t care about how, Sherlock, not now and maybe not ever. No matter how clever you think it was. I do care about _why_ , do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded, took another sip of tea as he seemed to consider something, then said more loudly, “I suppose you’d better join us, Greg. As it involved you too.”

“Me?” A dishtowel dangled from Greg’s hands as he joined them in the front room. 

“You, Mrs. Hudson... and John.” Sherlock set down his mug and forced himself to meet John’s eyes as he started to explain: “Do you remember what Moriarty said at the pool: that he would burn the heart out of me? That was his plan. My brother and I knew he had to be stopped, so we set to work. Mycroft didn’t sell me out, John, not entirely. We knew we had to get Moriarty’s attention in the right way. Ferret him out of the shadows where he likes to play. We planned for every contingency; but possibilities evaporated until there was only one course of action left.”

“English, please, Sherlock.” John set a hand on Sherlock’s duvet covered knee and requested, “Plain English.”

“There were three snipers, one bullet at the ready for each of you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I lured him out onto the roof. He’d promised me a fall, but I believed I could make him call them off. Moriarty realised his mistake - that he was the vulnerability in his own plan.” Sherlock dropped his eyes and looked in the direction of his own knees as he said, “He shook my hand and shot himself in the mouth.”

“Jesus.” Greg shot an apologetic glance at John for breaking into the flow of the story, but Sherlock carried on anyway.

“So I had to die. It was well planned. The physics was right, but I was… scared. I trust the laws of nature, John, but it was an awfully long way to jump.”

The rushing in John’s ears was back. His voice didn’t sound like his own as he said, “Then what?”

“It was just a magic trick. Some theatrics, a squash ball under the armpit. Mycroft spirited me out of the country, and I set to work dismantling Moriarty’s network. It was vast, John. And if I gave any sign that I was alive they’d have come back and shot you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock looked at the fire for a moment, then back to John. “I misjudged. I thought it would be nine months, a year at most and maybe even considerably less.”

Greg cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the other men, and asked, “Where were you? You told me you’d been smuggling yourself across Europe.”

“Serbia. It was the last connection. I was so ready to be done I got… sloppy.” Sherlock looked back at the fire. “I’m not sure of the date, but I think they had me for two months. They didn’t really know who I was. Not properly. They suspected I could know things, but they didn’t ask the right questions.”

In the light from the fire John could see faded bruising running along Sherlock’s hairline, down the side of his neck. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and gently touched his fingertips to the darkest mark. Sherlock’s breath hitched at the contact, but he didn’t look away from the fireplace. John continued the story, “You got yourself out a few days ago. Probably drove the jailer to distraction with some deductions and he left, figuring you were too weak to do anything.” 

John felt an almost imperceptible nod, so he continued, “You had no phone and barely any clothing. You believe your job is done, but until you speak to Mycroft you can’t be one hundred percent sure. Afraid to break your cover, you got yourself on a train, then a lorry, and managed to be carried all the way to London, where you found yourself in the middle of a snowstorm that even Mycroft’s CCTV couldn’t penetrate.” John exerted gentle pressure to the side of Sherlock’s face, encouraging him to turn his head as he finished, “So you came home.”

Sherlock released a flowing breath as he affirmed, “So I came home.” 

The silence stretched until Greg crouched down next to the other two and said, “So you did it for us?”

Sherlock nodded.

It was more than John felt able to cope with. There was a churning going on inside him that he hadn’t felt since a particularly bad mission in Afghanistan. Sherlock’s bare toes were poking out of the duvet next to him, bloodied and sore looking. As in Afghanistan, he let the medic take over. “Let me see.” He reached out and took one long foot in his hands. They were filthy as well. Sherlock must have been barefoot when held captive.

“Can I…”

“No,” John interrupted, sensing the direction of the request immediately. “I’m not letting you have a shower yet. You could faint in there.”

Sherlock’s lip curled, petulantly, “I am painfully aware that I smell.” He shot an accusatory glance at Greg, who had surely betrayed something on his face. “I just want to be clean again.”

“I could watch him.” Greg coloured slightly, “I mean, I could stand outside and make sure he’s okay. Just a quick one, John, and then you can bandage him up properly.”

“Fine,” John stood, brusquely, and headed for the kitchen, “but don’t blame me if you have to go in after him.”

By the time he actually got Sherlock into the shower, Greg was no longer sure it had been a good idea. The other man had leaned on him heavily during the short walk down the hall, then displayed each and every rib when he finally shrugged off the duvet and slipped behind the curtain. Despite an admonishment about not running the water too hot, steam began to curl around the edges of the curtain.

John returned and tossed Greg a clean pair of pyjama bottoms, thicker than the ones from the night before. When the water shut off he passed a towel around the curtain to Sherlock and then left him to dress himself. 

Returning to the front room, he found the cushions back on the sofa and a third chair drawn up in front of the fire. John was eating a plate of cold toast with peanut butter and offered a slice to Greg. They sat in companionable silence for some time, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Eventually, a creaking in the hallway and an unsteady gait made them both look to the doorway.

Sherlock had cut his hair. Not particularly well, and God knew what the back looked like, but enough to make him look more properly like _Sherlock_. Out of the corner of his eye, Greg could see John smiling.

John’s examination was thorough. A careful inspection of Sherlock’s feet before rolling socks over them. Questions about his legs, that were met with reasonably satisfying answers. A longer time attending to his back, cleaning deeply and rebandaging what Greg had given a first pass on the night before. Combing his fingers through Sherlock’s cropped hair, feeling the scabs and bruising underneath. Temperature - close enough to acceptable. Blood pressure that made John’s lips thin. Careful listening to Sherlock’s chest with a stethoscope, lingering just a little too long to be purely professional over his heart.

Finally, John appeared satisfied, although Greg could see a simmering anger being clamped down. He passed Sherlock an undershirt and then an old, stretched out, but cozy looking jumper. It was the sort of clothes he’d not normally be caught in, but Sherlock pulled them on without complaint.

Just then there was a, “Hoo hoo!” from the door, and a crash as a plate of something hit the floor and broke. 

Sherlock stood, slowly, and walked up to his former landlady. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” When she stared at him, frozen, he offered, “I am, as it were, not dead.”

Martha Hudson slapped him clear across the face, then, when everyone was still too stunned to move, burst into tears and gathered him up in a hug with something that sounded like _”my darling boy”_ muffled by Sherlock’s shoulder. He hugged her back, too, eyes closing as a real smile settled on his face.

Tears now streaming how her face she pulled back, hands fluttering as she looked between the three of them and the floor. “Oh, what a mess I’ve made. Oh, John!”

John bounded to his feet as well, ushering her over to his own chair. “It’s just fine. You sit down, here, that’s it.”

“But, how, Sherlock? She sounded wounded, voice still a trifle too high pitched, “How could you put us through all that?”

John broke in before Sherlock could answer, “Actually, Mrs. Hudson, he did it for us.” He said it with such conviction his landlady’s wringing hands stilled. 

Sherlock moved to kneel in front of her chair and began an amended version of what he'd said earlier, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, for what I put you through. It was never my intention to subject you to a protracted farce of my death, and if there had been any way to keep you safe and avoid doing so I would have."

"Oh, Sherlock." It was a familiar admonishment. Her hands fluttered their way to his hair, carding through it with her fingertips. "You don't look well at all, young man."

He managed a small smile. "It wasn't the easiest of exiles."

"No," she shook her head, "I suppose they seldom are." She patted his cheek, as if continuing to ground herself that he was actually there. "You look far too thin, and John hasn't been much better since..." The absurdity of _since you died_ stilled her tongue, but Sherlock understood precisely. She managed to blink back the tears that were threatening to fall, knowing how Sherlock felt about anything as pedestrian as crying. "I'll bring up some proper breakfast. You all look like you need it, and I don't have high hopes for the contents of your fridge."

John had the grace to look abashed as she pulled Sherlock into one more quick hug before bustling from the room.

Greg looked out the window and found a car wallowing its way down the street. "Looks like some people are starting to brave it. I'm supposed to be on this afternoon-- I'll ask Donovan to come by in a squad car around lunchtime." He paused, considering, "They feel really bad. Can I..."

"Not until after I talk to Mycroft." Sherlock moved to stand next to the window as well. "Your sniper was too close for comfort. I want to be absolutely sure." As they watched, the car become stuck, digging itself deeper with a whirring of wheels.

 

**************

It had started to snow again after Greg left. The takeaways were all closed, so they ate a shepherd's pie courtesy of Mrs. Hudson's freezer and retired to chairs by the fire.

Mycroft had phoned John around eight o'clock, long after the sun had gone down and the traffic had retreated from the renewed snow. He'd answered the phone to the often oily voice saying, "Hello, John, might I have a word with my brother?" The conversation had initially been very one-sided, with Sherlock offering just a few words, grunts of affirmation or negation, and a name that sounded like Maupertuis. When he ended the call Sherlock had looked relieved, then sat down by the fire and proceeded to elaborate on the condensed story he'd shared that morning.

It hadn't been easy listening.

In fact, it had been horrifying listening. By the end of it, John came to a decision. It was after eleven, and Sherlock had been doggedly struggling to keep his eyes open for some time. "Bed time." Sherlock looked up from his steepled fingers. Before the detective could speak, John continued, "Your bed isn't ready, and I managed to get broken glass all around your bedroom. And, quite frankly, it's freezing in there." Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure what. John took a breath and said, "Come upstairs."

"John?" Sherlock's head was tilted to one side, as if he was trying and just failing to connect the dots in a particularly important deduction.

"Come upstairs." John smiled and repeated again, "Come upstairs, with me." Then he stood and pulled Sherlock up and out of his chair, guiding the taller man towards the stairs.

"But, John, I thought..."

"Don't think." John reached up and placed one finger to Sherlock's lips. "Just for now, don't think. If you don't want to, that's fine, but if you do... just come." 

Sherlock dipped his head down, inscrutable, and John was suddenly terrified he'd made a serious misjudgement. Then Sherlock smiled and whispered, "It's Christmas," before catching John in a kiss.

John realised his face was wet, but whether it was from Sherlock or his own eyes he couldn't tell. He gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze, and there was an answering squeeze in return. 

He was home.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for "Winter, Baker Street Series" by Joules Mer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545860) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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